EL HOMBREIt’s a strange courageyou give me ancient star:Shine alone in the sunrisetoward which you lend no part!
EL HOMBREIt’s a strange courageyou give me ancient star:Shine alone in the sunrisetoward which you lend no part!
EL HOMBREIt’s a strange courageyou give me ancient star:
Shine alone in the sunrisetoward which you lend no part!
HEROFool,put your adventuresinto those thingswhich break ships—not female flesh.Let there passover the mindthe waters offour oceans, the airsof four skies!Return hollow-bellied,keen-eyed, hard!A simple scar or two.Little girls will comebringing youroses for your button-hole.
HEROFool,put your adventuresinto those thingswhich break ships—not female flesh.Let there passover the mindthe waters offour oceans, the airsof four skies!Return hollow-bellied,keen-eyed, hard!A simple scar or two.Little girls will comebringing youroses for your button-hole.
HEROFool,put your adventuresinto those thingswhich break ships—not female flesh.
Let there passover the mindthe waters offour oceans, the airsof four skies!
Return hollow-bellied,keen-eyed, hard!A simple scar or two.
Little girls will comebringing youroses for your button-hole.
LIBERTAD! IGUALDAD! FRATERNIDAD!You sullen pig of a manyou force me into the mudwith your stinking ash-cart!Brother!—if we were richwe’d stick our chests outand hold our heads high!It is dreams that have destroyed us.There is no more pridein horses or in rein holding.We sit hunched together broodingour fate.Well—all things turn bitter in the endwhether you choose the right orthe left wayand—dreams are not a bad thing.
LIBERTAD! IGUALDAD! FRATERNIDAD!You sullen pig of a manyou force me into the mudwith your stinking ash-cart!Brother!—if we were richwe’d stick our chests outand hold our heads high!It is dreams that have destroyed us.There is no more pridein horses or in rein holding.We sit hunched together broodingour fate.Well—all things turn bitter in the endwhether you choose the right orthe left wayand—dreams are not a bad thing.
LIBERTAD! IGUALDAD! FRATERNIDAD!You sullen pig of a manyou force me into the mudwith your stinking ash-cart!
Brother!—if we were richwe’d stick our chests outand hold our heads high!
It is dreams that have destroyed us.
There is no more pridein horses or in rein holding.We sit hunched together broodingour fate.
Well—all things turn bitter in the endwhether you choose the right orthe left wayand—dreams are not a bad thing.
CANTHARAThe old black-man showed mehow he had been shockedin his youthby six women, dancinga set-dance, stark naked belowthe skirts raised roundtheir breasts:bellies flung forwardknees flying!—whilehis gestures, against thetiled wall of the dingy bath-room,swished with ecstasy tothe familiar music ofhis old emotion.
CANTHARAThe old black-man showed mehow he had been shockedin his youthby six women, dancinga set-dance, stark naked belowthe skirts raised roundtheir breasts:bellies flung forwardknees flying!—whilehis gestures, against thetiled wall of the dingy bath-room,swished with ecstasy tothe familiar music ofhis old emotion.
CANTHARAThe old black-man showed mehow he had been shockedin his youthby six women, dancinga set-dance, stark naked belowthe skirts raised roundtheir breasts:bellies flung forwardknees flying!—whilehis gestures, against thetiled wall of the dingy bath-room,swished with ecstasy tothe familiar music ofhis old emotion.
MUJEROh, black Persian cat!Was not your lifealready cursed with offspring?We took you for rest to that oldYankee farm,—so lonelyand with so many field micein the long grass—and you return to usin this condition—!Oh, black Persian cat.
MUJEROh, black Persian cat!Was not your lifealready cursed with offspring?We took you for rest to that oldYankee farm,—so lonelyand with so many field micein the long grass—and you return to usin this condition—!Oh, black Persian cat.
MUJEROh, black Persian cat!Was not your lifealready cursed with offspring?
We took you for rest to that oldYankee farm,—so lonelyand with so many field micein the long grass—and you return to usin this condition—!
Oh, black Persian cat.
SUMMER SONGWanderer moonsmiling afaintly ironical smileat thisbrilliant, dew-moistenedsummer morning,—a detachedsleepily indifferentsmile, awanderer’s smile,—if I shouldbuy a shirtyour color andput on a necktiesky bluewhere would they carry me?
SUMMER SONGWanderer moonsmiling afaintly ironical smileat thisbrilliant, dew-moistenedsummer morning,—a detachedsleepily indifferentsmile, awanderer’s smile,—if I shouldbuy a shirtyour color andput on a necktiesky bluewhere would they carry me?
SUMMER SONGWanderer moonsmiling afaintly ironical smileat thisbrilliant, dew-moistenedsummer morning,—a detachedsleepily indifferentsmile, awanderer’s smile,—if I shouldbuy a shirtyour color andput on a necktiesky bluewhere would they carry me?
LOVE SONGSweep the house clean,hang fresh curtainsin the windowsput on a new dressand come with me!The elm is scatteringits little loavesof sweet smellsfrom a white sky!Who shall hear of usin the time to come?Let him say there wasa burst of fragrancefrom black branches.
LOVE SONGSweep the house clean,hang fresh curtainsin the windowsput on a new dressand come with me!The elm is scatteringits little loavesof sweet smellsfrom a white sky!Who shall hear of usin the time to come?Let him say there wasa burst of fragrancefrom black branches.
LOVE SONGSweep the house clean,hang fresh curtainsin the windowsput on a new dressand come with me!The elm is scatteringits little loavesof sweet smellsfrom a white sky!
Who shall hear of usin the time to come?Let him say there wasa burst of fragrancefrom black branches.
FOREIGNArtsybashev is a Russian.I am an American.Let us wonder, my townspeople,if Artsybashev tends his own firesas I do, gets himself cursedfor the baby’s failure to thrive,loosens windows for the womanwho cleans his parlor—or has he neat servantsand a quiet library, anintellectual wife perhaps andno children,—an apartmentsomewhere in a back street orlives alone or with his motheror sister—I wonder, my townspeople,if Artsybashev looks uponhimself the more concernedlyor succeeds any better than Iin laying the world.I wonder which is the biggerfool in his own mind.These are shining topicsmy townspeople but—hardly of great moment.
FOREIGNArtsybashev is a Russian.I am an American.Let us wonder, my townspeople,if Artsybashev tends his own firesas I do, gets himself cursedfor the baby’s failure to thrive,loosens windows for the womanwho cleans his parlor—or has he neat servantsand a quiet library, anintellectual wife perhaps andno children,—an apartmentsomewhere in a back street orlives alone or with his motheror sister—I wonder, my townspeople,if Artsybashev looks uponhimself the more concernedlyor succeeds any better than Iin laying the world.I wonder which is the biggerfool in his own mind.These are shining topicsmy townspeople but—hardly of great moment.
FOREIGNArtsybashev is a Russian.I am an American.Let us wonder, my townspeople,if Artsybashev tends his own firesas I do, gets himself cursedfor the baby’s failure to thrive,loosens windows for the womanwho cleans his parlor—or has he neat servantsand a quiet library, anintellectual wife perhaps andno children,—an apartmentsomewhere in a back street orlives alone or with his motheror sister—
I wonder, my townspeople,if Artsybashev looks uponhimself the more concernedlyor succeeds any better than Iin laying the world.
I wonder which is the biggerfool in his own mind.
These are shining topicsmy townspeople but—hardly of great moment.
A PRELUDEI know only the bare rocks of today.In these lies my brown sea-weed,—green quartz veins bent through the wet shale;in these lie my pools left by the tide—quiet, forgetting waves;on these stiffen white star fish;on these I slip bare footed!Whispers of the fishy air touch my body;“Sisters,” I say to them.
A PRELUDEI know only the bare rocks of today.In these lies my brown sea-weed,—green quartz veins bent through the wet shale;in these lie my pools left by the tide—quiet, forgetting waves;on these stiffen white star fish;on these I slip bare footed!Whispers of the fishy air touch my body;“Sisters,” I say to them.
A PRELUDEI know only the bare rocks of today.In these lies my brown sea-weed,—green quartz veins bent through the wet shale;in these lie my pools left by the tide—quiet, forgetting waves;on these stiffen white star fish;on these I slip bare footed!
Whispers of the fishy air touch my body;“Sisters,” I say to them.
HISTORYI.A wind might blow a lotus petalover the pyramids—but not this wind.Summer is a dried leaf.Leaves stir this way then thaton the baked asphalt, the wheelsof motor cars rush over them,—gas smells mingle with leaf smells.Oh, Sunday, day of worship!!!The steps to the museum are high.Worshippers pass in and out.Nobody comes here today.I come here to mingle faiance dugfrom the tomb, turquoise colorednecklaces and belched wind from thestomach; delicately veined basinsof agate, cracked and discolored andthe stink of stale urine!Enter! Elbow in at the door.Men? Women?Simpering, clay fetish-faces countingthrough the turnstile.Ah!
HISTORYI.A wind might blow a lotus petalover the pyramids—but not this wind.Summer is a dried leaf.Leaves stir this way then thaton the baked asphalt, the wheelsof motor cars rush over them,—gas smells mingle with leaf smells.Oh, Sunday, day of worship!!!The steps to the museum are high.Worshippers pass in and out.Nobody comes here today.I come here to mingle faiance dugfrom the tomb, turquoise colorednecklaces and belched wind from thestomach; delicately veined basinsof agate, cracked and discolored andthe stink of stale urine!Enter! Elbow in at the door.Men? Women?Simpering, clay fetish-faces countingthrough the turnstile.Ah!
HISTORYI.A wind might blow a lotus petalover the pyramids—but not this wind.
Summer is a dried leaf.
Leaves stir this way then thaton the baked asphalt, the wheelsof motor cars rush over them,—gas smells mingle with leaf smells.
Oh, Sunday, day of worship!!!
The steps to the museum are high.Worshippers pass in and out.Nobody comes here today.I come here to mingle faiance dugfrom the tomb, turquoise colorednecklaces and belched wind from thestomach; delicately veined basinsof agate, cracked and discolored andthe stink of stale urine!
Enter! Elbow in at the door.Men? Women?Simpering, clay fetish-faces countingthrough the turnstile.Ah!
II.This sarcophagus contained the bodyof Uresh-Nai, priestess to the goddess Mut,Mother of All—Run your finger against this edge!—here went the chisel!—and thinkof an arrogance endured six thousand yearswithout a flaw!But love is an oil to embalm the body.Love is a packet of spices, a strongsmelling liquid to be squirted intothe thigh. No?Love rubbed on a bald head will makehair—and after? Love isa lice comber!Gnats on dung!“The chisel is in your hand, the blockis before you, cut as I shall dictate:this is the coffin of Uresh-Nai,priestess to the sky goddess,—builtto endure forever!Carve the insidewith the image of my death inlittle lines of figures three fingers high.Put a lid on it cut with Mut bending overthe earth, for my headpiece, and in the yearto be chosen I will rouse, the lidshall be lifted and I will walk aboutthe temple where they have rested meand eat the air of the place:Ah—these walls are high! Thisis in keeping.”
II.This sarcophagus contained the bodyof Uresh-Nai, priestess to the goddess Mut,Mother of All—Run your finger against this edge!—here went the chisel!—and thinkof an arrogance endured six thousand yearswithout a flaw!But love is an oil to embalm the body.Love is a packet of spices, a strongsmelling liquid to be squirted intothe thigh. No?Love rubbed on a bald head will makehair—and after? Love isa lice comber!Gnats on dung!“The chisel is in your hand, the blockis before you, cut as I shall dictate:this is the coffin of Uresh-Nai,priestess to the sky goddess,—builtto endure forever!Carve the insidewith the image of my death inlittle lines of figures three fingers high.Put a lid on it cut with Mut bending overthe earth, for my headpiece, and in the yearto be chosen I will rouse, the lidshall be lifted and I will walk aboutthe temple where they have rested meand eat the air of the place:Ah—these walls are high! Thisis in keeping.”
II.This sarcophagus contained the bodyof Uresh-Nai, priestess to the goddess Mut,Mother of All—
Run your finger against this edge!—here went the chisel!—and thinkof an arrogance endured six thousand yearswithout a flaw!
But love is an oil to embalm the body.Love is a packet of spices, a strongsmelling liquid to be squirted intothe thigh. No?Love rubbed on a bald head will makehair—and after? Love isa lice comber!Gnats on dung!
“The chisel is in your hand, the blockis before you, cut as I shall dictate:this is the coffin of Uresh-Nai,priestess to the sky goddess,—builtto endure forever!Carve the insidewith the image of my death inlittle lines of figures three fingers high.Put a lid on it cut with Mut bending overthe earth, for my headpiece, and in the yearto be chosen I will rouse, the lidshall be lifted and I will walk aboutthe temple where they have rested meand eat the air of the place:
Ah—these walls are high! Thisis in keeping.”
III.The priestess has passed into her tomb.The stone has taken up her spirit!Granite over flesh: who will denyits advantages?Your death?—waterspilled upon the ground—though water will mount again into rose-leaves—but you?—would hold life still,even as a memory, when it is over.Benevolence is rare.Climb about this sarcophagus, readwhat is writ for you in these figures,hard as the granite that has held themwith so soft a hand the whileyour own flesh has been fifty timesthrough the guts of oxen,—read!“The rose-tree will have its donoreven though he give stingily.The gift of some enduresten years, the gift of some twentyand the gift of some for the time agreat house rots and is torn down.Some give for a thousand years to men ofone face, some for a thousandto all men and some few to all menwhile granite holds an edge againstthe weather.Judge then of love!”
III.The priestess has passed into her tomb.The stone has taken up her spirit!Granite over flesh: who will denyits advantages?Your death?—waterspilled upon the ground—though water will mount again into rose-leaves—but you?—would hold life still,even as a memory, when it is over.Benevolence is rare.Climb about this sarcophagus, readwhat is writ for you in these figures,hard as the granite that has held themwith so soft a hand the whileyour own flesh has been fifty timesthrough the guts of oxen,—read!“The rose-tree will have its donoreven though he give stingily.The gift of some enduresten years, the gift of some twentyand the gift of some for the time agreat house rots and is torn down.Some give for a thousand years to men ofone face, some for a thousandto all men and some few to all menwhile granite holds an edge againstthe weather.Judge then of love!”
III.The priestess has passed into her tomb.The stone has taken up her spirit!Granite over flesh: who will denyits advantages?
Your death?—waterspilled upon the ground—though water will mount again into rose-leaves—but you?—would hold life still,even as a memory, when it is over.Benevolence is rare.
Climb about this sarcophagus, readwhat is writ for you in these figures,hard as the granite that has held themwith so soft a hand the whileyour own flesh has been fifty timesthrough the guts of oxen,—read!“The rose-tree will have its donoreven though he give stingily.The gift of some enduresten years, the gift of some twentyand the gift of some for the time agreat house rots and is torn down.Some give for a thousand years to men ofone face, some for a thousandto all men and some few to all menwhile granite holds an edge againstthe weather.Judge then of love!”
IV.“My flesh is turned to stone. Ihave endured my summer. The flurryof falling petals is ended. Laythe finger upon this granite. I waswell desired and fully caressedby many lovers but my fleshwithered swiftly and my heart wasnever satisfied. Lay your handsupon the granite as a lover lays hishand upon the thigh and upon theround breasts of her who isbeside him, for now I will not wither,now I have thrown off secrecy, nowI have walked naked into the street,now I have scattered my heavy beautyin the open market.Here I am with head high and aburning heart eagerly awaitingyour caresses, whoever it may be,for granite is not harder thanmy love is open, runs loose among you!I arrogant against death! Iwho have endured! I worn againstthe years!”
IV.“My flesh is turned to stone. Ihave endured my summer. The flurryof falling petals is ended. Laythe finger upon this granite. I waswell desired and fully caressedby many lovers but my fleshwithered swiftly and my heart wasnever satisfied. Lay your handsupon the granite as a lover lays hishand upon the thigh and upon theround breasts of her who isbeside him, for now I will not wither,now I have thrown off secrecy, nowI have walked naked into the street,now I have scattered my heavy beautyin the open market.Here I am with head high and aburning heart eagerly awaitingyour caresses, whoever it may be,for granite is not harder thanmy love is open, runs loose among you!I arrogant against death! Iwho have endured! I worn againstthe years!”
IV.“My flesh is turned to stone. Ihave endured my summer. The flurryof falling petals is ended. Laythe finger upon this granite. I waswell desired and fully caressedby many lovers but my fleshwithered swiftly and my heart wasnever satisfied. Lay your handsupon the granite as a lover lays hishand upon the thigh and upon theround breasts of her who isbeside him, for now I will not wither,now I have thrown off secrecy, nowI have walked naked into the street,now I have scattered my heavy beautyin the open market.Here I am with head high and aburning heart eagerly awaitingyour caresses, whoever it may be,for granite is not harder thanmy love is open, runs loose among you!
I arrogant against death! Iwho have endured! I worn againstthe years!”
V.But it is five o’clock. Come!Life is good—enjoy it!A walk in the park while the day lasts.I will go with you. Look! thisnorthern scenery is not the Nile, but—these benches—the yellow and purple dusk—the moon there—these tired people—the lights on the water!Are not these Jews and—Ethiopians?The world is young, surely! Youngand colored like—a girl that has come upona lover! Will that do?
V.But it is five o’clock. Come!Life is good—enjoy it!A walk in the park while the day lasts.I will go with you. Look! thisnorthern scenery is not the Nile, but—these benches—the yellow and purple dusk—the moon there—these tired people—the lights on the water!Are not these Jews and—Ethiopians?The world is young, surely! Youngand colored like—a girl that has come upona lover! Will that do?
V.But it is five o’clock. Come!Life is good—enjoy it!A walk in the park while the day lasts.I will go with you. Look! thisnorthern scenery is not the Nile, but—these benches—the yellow and purple dusk—the moon there—these tired people—the lights on the water!
Are not these Jews and—Ethiopians?The world is young, surely! Youngand colored like—a girl that has come upona lover! Will that do?
WINTER QUIETLimb to limb, mouth to mouthwith the bleached grasssilver mist lies upon the back yardsamong the outhouses.The dwarf treespirouette awkwardly to it—whirling round on one toe;the big tree smiles and glancesupward!Tense with suppressed excitementthe fences watch where the groundhas humped an aching shoulder forthe ecstasy.
WINTER QUIETLimb to limb, mouth to mouthwith the bleached grasssilver mist lies upon the back yardsamong the outhouses.The dwarf treespirouette awkwardly to it—whirling round on one toe;the big tree smiles and glancesupward!Tense with suppressed excitementthe fences watch where the groundhas humped an aching shoulder forthe ecstasy.
WINTER QUIETLimb to limb, mouth to mouthwith the bleached grasssilver mist lies upon the back yardsamong the outhouses.The dwarf treespirouette awkwardly to it—whirling round on one toe;the big tree smiles and glancesupward!Tense with suppressed excitementthe fences watch where the groundhas humped an aching shoulder forthe ecstasy.
DAWNEcstatic bird songs poundthe hollow vastness of the skywith metallic clinkings—beating color up into itat a far edge,—beating it, beating itwith rising, triumphant ardor,—stirring it into warmth,quickening in it a spreading change,—bursting wildly against it asdividing the horizon, a heavy sunlifts himself—is lifted—bit by bit above the edgeof things,—runs free at lastout into the open—! lumberingglorified in full release upward—songs cease.
DAWNEcstatic bird songs poundthe hollow vastness of the skywith metallic clinkings—beating color up into itat a far edge,—beating it, beating itwith rising, triumphant ardor,—stirring it into warmth,quickening in it a spreading change,—bursting wildly against it asdividing the horizon, a heavy sunlifts himself—is lifted—bit by bit above the edgeof things,—runs free at lastout into the open—! lumberingglorified in full release upward—songs cease.
DAWNEcstatic bird songs poundthe hollow vastness of the skywith metallic clinkings—beating color up into itat a far edge,—beating it, beating itwith rising, triumphant ardor,—stirring it into warmth,quickening in it a spreading change,—bursting wildly against it asdividing the horizon, a heavy sunlifts himself—is lifted—bit by bit above the edgeof things,—runs free at lastout into the open—! lumberingglorified in full release upward—songs cease.
GOOD NIGHTIn brilliant gas lightI turn the kitchen spigotand watch the water plashinto the clean white sink.On the grooved drain-boardto one side isa glass filled with parsley—crisped green.Waitingfor the water to freshen—I glance at the spotless floor—:a pair of rubber sandalslie side by sideunder the wall-table,all is in order for the night.Waiting, with a glass in my hand—three girls in crimson satinpass close before me onthe murmurous background ofthe crowded opera—it ismemory playing the clown—three vague, meaningless girlsfull of smells andthe rustling sound ofcloth rubbing on cloth andlittle slippers on carpet—high-school Frenchspoken in a loud voice!Parsley in a glass,still and shining,brings me back. I take my drinkand yawn deliciously.I am ready for bed.
GOOD NIGHTIn brilliant gas lightI turn the kitchen spigotand watch the water plashinto the clean white sink.On the grooved drain-boardto one side isa glass filled with parsley—crisped green.Waitingfor the water to freshen—I glance at the spotless floor—:a pair of rubber sandalslie side by sideunder the wall-table,all is in order for the night.Waiting, with a glass in my hand—three girls in crimson satinpass close before me onthe murmurous background ofthe crowded opera—it ismemory playing the clown—three vague, meaningless girlsfull of smells andthe rustling sound ofcloth rubbing on cloth andlittle slippers on carpet—high-school Frenchspoken in a loud voice!Parsley in a glass,still and shining,brings me back. I take my drinkand yawn deliciously.I am ready for bed.
GOOD NIGHTIn brilliant gas lightI turn the kitchen spigotand watch the water plashinto the clean white sink.On the grooved drain-boardto one side isa glass filled with parsley—crisped green.Waitingfor the water to freshen—I glance at the spotless floor—:a pair of rubber sandalslie side by sideunder the wall-table,all is in order for the night.
Waiting, with a glass in my hand—three girls in crimson satinpass close before me onthe murmurous background ofthe crowded opera—it ismemory playing the clown—three vague, meaningless girlsfull of smells andthe rustling sound ofcloth rubbing on cloth andlittle slippers on carpet—high-school Frenchspoken in a loud voice!
Parsley in a glass,still and shining,brings me back. I take my drinkand yawn deliciously.I am ready for bed.
DANSE RUSSEIf I when my wife is sleepingand the baby and Kathleenare sleepingand the sun is a flame-white discin silken mistsabove shining trees,—if I in my north roomdanse naked, grotesquelybefore my mirrorwaving my shirt round my headand singing softly to myself:“I am lonely, lonely.I was born to be lonely.I am best so!”If I admire my arms, my facemy shoulders, flanks, buttocksagainst the yellow drawn shades,—who shall say I am notthe happy genius of my household?
DANSE RUSSEIf I when my wife is sleepingand the baby and Kathleenare sleepingand the sun is a flame-white discin silken mistsabove shining trees,—if I in my north roomdanse naked, grotesquelybefore my mirrorwaving my shirt round my headand singing softly to myself:“I am lonely, lonely.I was born to be lonely.I am best so!”If I admire my arms, my facemy shoulders, flanks, buttocksagainst the yellow drawn shades,—who shall say I am notthe happy genius of my household?
DANSE RUSSEIf I when my wife is sleepingand the baby and Kathleenare sleepingand the sun is a flame-white discin silken mistsabove shining trees,—if I in my north roomdanse naked, grotesquelybefore my mirrorwaving my shirt round my headand singing softly to myself:“I am lonely, lonely.I was born to be lonely.I am best so!”If I admire my arms, my facemy shoulders, flanks, buttocksagainst the yellow drawn shades,—
who shall say I am notthe happy genius of my household?
PORTRAIT OF A WOMAN IN BEDThere’s my thingsdrying in the corner:that blue skirtjoined to the grey shirt—I’m sick of trouble!Lift the coversif you want meand you’ll seethe rest of my clothes—though it would be coldlying with nothing on!I won’t workand I’ve got no cash.What are you going to doabout it?—and no jewelry(the crazy fools)But I’ve my two eyesand a smooth faceand here’s this! look!it’s high!There’s brains and bloodin there—my name’s Robitza!Corsetscan go to the devil—and drawers along with them!What do I care!My two boys?—they’re keen!Let the rich ladycare for them—they’ll beat the schoolorlet them go to the gutter—that ends trouble.This house is emptyisn’t it?Then it’s minebecause I need it.Oh, I won’t starvewhile there’s the Bibleto make them feed me.Try to help meif you want troubleor leave me alone—that ends trouble.The county physicianis a damned fooland youcan go to hell!You could have closed the doorwhen you came in;do it when you go out.I’m tired.
PORTRAIT OF A WOMAN IN BEDThere’s my thingsdrying in the corner:that blue skirtjoined to the grey shirt—I’m sick of trouble!Lift the coversif you want meand you’ll seethe rest of my clothes—though it would be coldlying with nothing on!I won’t workand I’ve got no cash.What are you going to doabout it?—and no jewelry(the crazy fools)But I’ve my two eyesand a smooth faceand here’s this! look!it’s high!There’s brains and bloodin there—my name’s Robitza!Corsetscan go to the devil—and drawers along with them!What do I care!My two boys?—they’re keen!Let the rich ladycare for them—they’ll beat the schoolorlet them go to the gutter—that ends trouble.This house is emptyisn’t it?Then it’s minebecause I need it.Oh, I won’t starvewhile there’s the Bibleto make them feed me.Try to help meif you want troubleor leave me alone—that ends trouble.The county physicianis a damned fooland youcan go to hell!You could have closed the doorwhen you came in;do it when you go out.I’m tired.
PORTRAIT OF A WOMAN IN BEDThere’s my thingsdrying in the corner:that blue skirtjoined to the grey shirt—
I’m sick of trouble!Lift the coversif you want meand you’ll seethe rest of my clothes—though it would be coldlying with nothing on!
I won’t workand I’ve got no cash.What are you going to doabout it?
—and no jewelry(the crazy fools)
But I’ve my two eyesand a smooth faceand here’s this! look!it’s high!There’s brains and bloodin there—my name’s Robitza!Corsetscan go to the devil—and drawers along with them!What do I care!
My two boys?—they’re keen!Let the rich ladycare for them—they’ll beat the schoolorlet them go to the gutter—that ends trouble.
This house is emptyisn’t it?Then it’s minebecause I need it.
Oh, I won’t starvewhile there’s the Bibleto make them feed me.
Try to help meif you want troubleor leave me alone—that ends trouble.
The county physicianis a damned fooland youcan go to hell!
You could have closed the doorwhen you came in;do it when you go out.I’m tired.
VIRTUENow? Why—whirl-pools oforange and purple flamefeather twists of chromeon a green groundfunneling down uponthe steaming phallus-headof the mad sun himself—blackened crimson!Now?Why—it is the smile of herthe smell of herthe vulgar inviting mouth of her!It is—Oh, nothing newnothing that lastsan eternity, nothing worthputting out to interest,nothing—but the fixing of an eyeconcretely upon emptiness!Come! here are—cross-eyed men, a boywith a patch, men walkingin their shirts, men in hatsdark men, a pale manwith little black moustachesand a dirty white coat,fat men with pudgy faces,thin faces, crooked facesslit eyes, grey eyes, black eyesold men with dirty beards,men in vests withgold watch chains. Come!
VIRTUENow? Why—whirl-pools oforange and purple flamefeather twists of chromeon a green groundfunneling down uponthe steaming phallus-headof the mad sun himself—blackened crimson!Now?Why—it is the smile of herthe smell of herthe vulgar inviting mouth of her!It is—Oh, nothing newnothing that lastsan eternity, nothing worthputting out to interest,nothing—but the fixing of an eyeconcretely upon emptiness!Come! here are—cross-eyed men, a boywith a patch, men walkingin their shirts, men in hatsdark men, a pale manwith little black moustachesand a dirty white coat,fat men with pudgy faces,thin faces, crooked facesslit eyes, grey eyes, black eyesold men with dirty beards,men in vests withgold watch chains. Come!
VIRTUENow? Why—whirl-pools oforange and purple flamefeather twists of chromeon a green groundfunneling down uponthe steaming phallus-headof the mad sun himself—blackened crimson!Now?
Why—it is the smile of herthe smell of herthe vulgar inviting mouth of her!It is—Oh, nothing newnothing that lastsan eternity, nothing worthputting out to interest,nothing—but the fixing of an eyeconcretely upon emptiness!
Come! here are—cross-eyed men, a boywith a patch, men walkingin their shirts, men in hatsdark men, a pale manwith little black moustachesand a dirty white coat,fat men with pudgy faces,thin faces, crooked facesslit eyes, grey eyes, black eyesold men with dirty beards,men in vests withgold watch chains. Come!
CONQUEST[Dedicated to F. W.]Hard, chilly colors:straw grey, frost greythe grey of frozen ground:and you, O sun,close above the horizon!It is I holds you—half against the skyhalf against a black tree trunkicily resplendent!Lie there, blue city, mine at last—rimming the banked blue greyand rise, indescribable smoky yellowinto the overpowering white!
CONQUEST[Dedicated to F. W.]Hard, chilly colors:straw grey, frost greythe grey of frozen ground:and you, O sun,close above the horizon!It is I holds you—half against the skyhalf against a black tree trunkicily resplendent!Lie there, blue city, mine at last—rimming the banked blue greyand rise, indescribable smoky yellowinto the overpowering white!
CONQUEST[Dedicated to F. W.]Hard, chilly colors:straw grey, frost greythe grey of frozen ground:and you, O sun,close above the horizon!It is I holds you—half against the skyhalf against a black tree trunkicily resplendent!
Lie there, blue city, mine at last—rimming the banked blue greyand rise, indescribable smoky yellowinto the overpowering white!
PORTRAIT OF A YOUNG MANWITH A BAD HEARTHave I seen her?Only through the windowacross the street.If I go meeting heron the cornersome damned foolwill go blabbing itto the old man andshe’ll get hell.He’s a queer old bastard!Every time he sees meyou’d thinkI wanted to kill him.But I figure it outit’s best to let thingsstay as they are—for a while at least.It’s hardgiving up the thingyou want mostin the world, but with thisdamned pump of mineliable to give out ...She’s a good kidand I’d hate to hurt herbut if she can get over it—it’d be the best thing.
PORTRAIT OF A YOUNG MANWITH A BAD HEARTHave I seen her?Only through the windowacross the street.If I go meeting heron the cornersome damned foolwill go blabbing itto the old man andshe’ll get hell.He’s a queer old bastard!Every time he sees meyou’d thinkI wanted to kill him.But I figure it outit’s best to let thingsstay as they are—for a while at least.It’s hardgiving up the thingyou want mostin the world, but with thisdamned pump of mineliable to give out ...She’s a good kidand I’d hate to hurt herbut if she can get over it—it’d be the best thing.
PORTRAIT OF A YOUNG MANWITH A BAD HEARTHave I seen her?Only through the windowacross the street.
If I go meeting heron the cornersome damned foolwill go blabbing itto the old man andshe’ll get hell.He’s a queer old bastard!Every time he sees meyou’d thinkI wanted to kill him.But I figure it outit’s best to let thingsstay as they are—for a while at least.
It’s hardgiving up the thingyou want mostin the world, but with thisdamned pump of mineliable to give out ...
She’s a good kidand I’d hate to hurt herbut if she can get over it—
it’d be the best thing.
KELLER GEGEN DOMWitness, would you—one more young manin the evening of his lovehurrying to confession:steps down a guttercrosses a streetgoes in at a doorwayopens for you—like some great flower—a room filled with lamplight;or whirls himselfobediently tothe curl of a hillsome wind-dancing afternoon;lies for you inthe futile darkness ofa wall, sets stars dancingto the crack of a leaf—and—leaning his head away—snuffs (secretly)the bitter powder fromhis thumb’s hollow,takes your blessing andgoes home to bed?Witness insteadwhether you like it or nota dark vinegar smelling placefrom which tricklesthe chuckle ofbeginning laughterIt strikes midnight.
KELLER GEGEN DOMWitness, would you—one more young manin the evening of his lovehurrying to confession:steps down a guttercrosses a streetgoes in at a doorwayopens for you—like some great flower—a room filled with lamplight;or whirls himselfobediently tothe curl of a hillsome wind-dancing afternoon;lies for you inthe futile darkness ofa wall, sets stars dancingto the crack of a leaf—and—leaning his head away—snuffs (secretly)the bitter powder fromhis thumb’s hollow,takes your blessing andgoes home to bed?Witness insteadwhether you like it or nota dark vinegar smelling placefrom which tricklesthe chuckle ofbeginning laughterIt strikes midnight.
KELLER GEGEN DOMWitness, would you—one more young manin the evening of his lovehurrying to confession:steps down a guttercrosses a streetgoes in at a doorwayopens for you—like some great flower—a room filled with lamplight;or whirls himselfobediently tothe curl of a hillsome wind-dancing afternoon;lies for you inthe futile darkness ofa wall, sets stars dancingto the crack of a leaf—
and—leaning his head away—snuffs (secretly)the bitter powder fromhis thumb’s hollow,takes your blessing andgoes home to bed?
Witness insteadwhether you like it or nota dark vinegar smelling placefrom which tricklesthe chuckle ofbeginning laughter
It strikes midnight.
SMELL!Oh strong ridged and deeply hollowednose of mine! what will you not be smelling?What tactless asses we are, you and I, boney nose,always indiscriminate, always unashamed,and now it is the souring flowers of the bedraggledpoplars: a festering pulp on the wet earthbeneath them. With what deep thirstwe quicken our desiresto that rank odor of a passing spring-time!Can you not be decent? Can you not reserve your ardorsfor something less unlovely? What girl will carefor us, do you think, if we continue in these ways?Must you taste everything? Must you know everything?Must you have a part in everything?
SMELL!Oh strong ridged and deeply hollowednose of mine! what will you not be smelling?What tactless asses we are, you and I, boney nose,always indiscriminate, always unashamed,and now it is the souring flowers of the bedraggledpoplars: a festering pulp on the wet earthbeneath them. With what deep thirstwe quicken our desiresto that rank odor of a passing spring-time!Can you not be decent? Can you not reserve your ardorsfor something less unlovely? What girl will carefor us, do you think, if we continue in these ways?Must you taste everything? Must you know everything?Must you have a part in everything?
SMELL!Oh strong ridged and deeply hollowednose of mine! what will you not be smelling?What tactless asses we are, you and I, boney nose,always indiscriminate, always unashamed,and now it is the souring flowers of the bedraggledpoplars: a festering pulp on the wet earthbeneath them. With what deep thirstwe quicken our desiresto that rank odor of a passing spring-time!Can you not be decent? Can you not reserve your ardorsfor something less unlovely? What girl will carefor us, do you think, if we continue in these ways?Must you taste everything? Must you know everything?Must you have a part in everything?
BALLETAre you not weary,great gold crossshining in the wind—are you not wearyof seeing the starsturning over youand the sungoing to his restand you frozen witha great liethat leaves yourigid as a knighton a marble coffin?—and you,higher, still,robin,untwisting a songfrom the baretop-twigs,are you notweary of labor,even the labor ofa song?Come down—join mefor I am lonely.First it will bea quiet paceto ease our stiffnessbut as the west yellowsyou will be ready!Here in the middleof the roadwaywe will flingourselves roundwith dust liliestill we are bound intheir twining stems!We will teartheir flowerswith arms flashing!And whenthe astonished starspush asidetheir curtainsthey will see usfall exhausted wherewheels andthe pounding feetof horseswill crush forthour laughter.
BALLETAre you not weary,great gold crossshining in the wind—are you not wearyof seeing the starsturning over youand the sungoing to his restand you frozen witha great liethat leaves yourigid as a knighton a marble coffin?—and you,higher, still,robin,untwisting a songfrom the baretop-twigs,are you notweary of labor,even the labor ofa song?Come down—join mefor I am lonely.First it will bea quiet paceto ease our stiffnessbut as the west yellowsyou will be ready!Here in the middleof the roadwaywe will flingourselves roundwith dust liliestill we are bound intheir twining stems!We will teartheir flowerswith arms flashing!And whenthe astonished starspush asidetheir curtainsthey will see usfall exhausted wherewheels andthe pounding feetof horseswill crush forthour laughter.
BALLETAre you not weary,great gold crossshining in the wind—are you not wearyof seeing the starsturning over youand the sungoing to his restand you frozen witha great liethat leaves yourigid as a knighton a marble coffin?
—and you,higher, still,robin,untwisting a songfrom the baretop-twigs,are you notweary of labor,even the labor ofa song?
Come down—join mefor I am lonely.
First it will bea quiet paceto ease our stiffnessbut as the west yellowsyou will be ready!
Here in the middleof the roadwaywe will flingourselves roundwith dust liliestill we are bound intheir twining stems!We will teartheir flowerswith arms flashing!
And whenthe astonished starspush asidetheir curtainsthey will see usfall exhausted wherewheels andthe pounding feetof horseswill crush forthour laughter.
SYMPATHETIC PORTRAIT OF ACHILDThe murderer’s little daughterwho is barely ten years oldjerks her shouldersright and leftso as to catch a glimpse of mewithout turning round.Her skinny little armswrap themselvesthis way then thatreversely about her body!Nervouslyshe crushes her straw hatabout her eyesand tilts her headto deepen the shadow—smiling excitedly!As best as she canshe hides herselfin the full sunlighther cordy legs writhingbeneath the little flowered dressthat leaves them barefrom mid-thigh to ankle—Why has she chosen mefor the knifethat darts along her smile?
SYMPATHETIC PORTRAIT OF ACHILDThe murderer’s little daughterwho is barely ten years oldjerks her shouldersright and leftso as to catch a glimpse of mewithout turning round.Her skinny little armswrap themselvesthis way then thatreversely about her body!Nervouslyshe crushes her straw hatabout her eyesand tilts her headto deepen the shadow—smiling excitedly!As best as she canshe hides herselfin the full sunlighther cordy legs writhingbeneath the little flowered dressthat leaves them barefrom mid-thigh to ankle—Why has she chosen mefor the knifethat darts along her smile?
SYMPATHETIC PORTRAIT OF ACHILDThe murderer’s little daughterwho is barely ten years oldjerks her shouldersright and leftso as to catch a glimpse of mewithout turning round.
Her skinny little armswrap themselvesthis way then thatreversely about her body!Nervouslyshe crushes her straw hatabout her eyesand tilts her headto deepen the shadow—smiling excitedly!
As best as she canshe hides herselfin the full sunlighther cordy legs writhingbeneath the little flowered dressthat leaves them barefrom mid-thigh to ankle—
Why has she chosen mefor the knifethat darts along her smile?
THE OGRESweet child,little girl with well shaped legsyou cannot touch the thoughtsI put over and under and around you.This is fortunate for they wouldburn you to an ash otherwise.Your petals would be quite curled up.This is all beyond you—no doubt,yet you do feel the brushingsof the fine needles;the tentative lines of your whole bodyprove it to me;so does your fear of me,your shyness;likewise the toy baby cartthat you are pushing—and besides, mother has begunto dress your hair in a knot.These are my excuses.
THE OGRESweet child,little girl with well shaped legsyou cannot touch the thoughtsI put over and under and around you.This is fortunate for they wouldburn you to an ash otherwise.Your petals would be quite curled up.This is all beyond you—no doubt,yet you do feel the brushingsof the fine needles;the tentative lines of your whole bodyprove it to me;so does your fear of me,your shyness;likewise the toy baby cartthat you are pushing—and besides, mother has begunto dress your hair in a knot.These are my excuses.
THE OGRESweet child,little girl with well shaped legsyou cannot touch the thoughtsI put over and under and around you.
This is fortunate for they wouldburn you to an ash otherwise.Your petals would be quite curled up.
This is all beyond you—no doubt,yet you do feel the brushingsof the fine needles;the tentative lines of your whole bodyprove it to me;so does your fear of me,your shyness;likewise the toy baby cartthat you are pushing—and besides, mother has begunto dress your hair in a knot.These are my excuses.
RIPOSTELove is like water or the airmy townspeople;it cleanses, and dissipates evil gases.It is like poetry tooand for the same reasons.Love is so preciousmy townspeoplethat if I were you I wouldhave it under lock and key—like the air or the Atlantic orlike poetry!
RIPOSTELove is like water or the airmy townspeople;it cleanses, and dissipates evil gases.It is like poetry tooand for the same reasons.Love is so preciousmy townspeoplethat if I were you I wouldhave it under lock and key—like the air or the Atlantic orlike poetry!
RIPOSTELove is like water or the airmy townspeople;it cleanses, and dissipates evil gases.It is like poetry tooand for the same reasons.
Love is so preciousmy townspeoplethat if I were you I wouldhave it under lock and key—like the air or the Atlantic orlike poetry!
THE OLD MENOld men who have studiedevery leg showin the cityOld men cut from touchby the perfumed music—polished or fleeced skullsthat stand beforethe whole theaterin silent attitudesof attention,—old men who have taken precedenceover young menand even over dark-facedhusbands whose mindsare a street with arc-lights.Solitary old men for whomwe find no excuses—I bow my head in shamefor those who malign you.Old menthe peaceful beer of impotencebe yours!
THE OLD MENOld men who have studiedevery leg showin the cityOld men cut from touchby the perfumed music—polished or fleeced skullsthat stand beforethe whole theaterin silent attitudesof attention,—old men who have taken precedenceover young menand even over dark-facedhusbands whose mindsare a street with arc-lights.Solitary old men for whomwe find no excuses—I bow my head in shamefor those who malign you.Old menthe peaceful beer of impotencebe yours!
THE OLD MENOld men who have studiedevery leg showin the cityOld men cut from touchby the perfumed music—polished or fleeced skullsthat stand beforethe whole theaterin silent attitudesof attention,—old men who have taken precedenceover young menand even over dark-facedhusbands whose mindsare a street with arc-lights.Solitary old men for whomwe find no excuses—I bow my head in shamefor those who malign you.Old menthe peaceful beer of impotencebe yours!
PASTORALIf I say I have heard voiceswho will believe me?“None has dipped his handin the black waters of the skynor picked the yellow liliesthat sway on their clear stemsand no tree has waitedlong enough nor still enoughto touch fingers with the moon.”I looked and there were little frogswith puffed out throats,singing in the slime.
PASTORALIf I say I have heard voiceswho will believe me?“None has dipped his handin the black waters of the skynor picked the yellow liliesthat sway on their clear stemsand no tree has waitedlong enough nor still enoughto touch fingers with the moon.”I looked and there were little frogswith puffed out throats,singing in the slime.
PASTORALIf I say I have heard voiceswho will believe me?
“None has dipped his handin the black waters of the skynor picked the yellow liliesthat sway on their clear stemsand no tree has waitedlong enough nor still enoughto touch fingers with the moon.”
I looked and there were little frogswith puffed out throats,singing in the slime.
SPRING STRAINSIn a tissue-thin monotone of blue-grey budscrowded erect with desire againstthe sky—tense blue-grey twigsslenderly anchoring them down, drawingthem in—two blue-grey birds chasinga third struggle in circles, angles,swift convergings to a point that burstsinstantly!Vibrant bowing limbspull downward, sucking in the skythat bulges from behind, plastering itselfagainst them in packed rifts, rock blueand dirty orange!But—(Hold hard, rigid jointed trees!)the blinding and red-edged sun-blur—creeping energy, concentratedcounterforce—welds sky, buds, trees,rivets them in one puckering hold!Sticks through! Pulls the wholecounter-pulling mass upward, to the right,locks even the opaque, not yet definedground in a terrific drag that isloosening the very tap-roots!On a tissue-thin monotone of blue-grey budstwo blue-grey birds, chasing a third,at full cry! Now they areflung outward and up—disappearing suddenly!
SPRING STRAINSIn a tissue-thin monotone of blue-grey budscrowded erect with desire againstthe sky—tense blue-grey twigsslenderly anchoring them down, drawingthem in—two blue-grey birds chasinga third struggle in circles, angles,swift convergings to a point that burstsinstantly!Vibrant bowing limbspull downward, sucking in the skythat bulges from behind, plastering itselfagainst them in packed rifts, rock blueand dirty orange!But—(Hold hard, rigid jointed trees!)the blinding and red-edged sun-blur—creeping energy, concentratedcounterforce—welds sky, buds, trees,rivets them in one puckering hold!Sticks through! Pulls the wholecounter-pulling mass upward, to the right,locks even the opaque, not yet definedground in a terrific drag that isloosening the very tap-roots!On a tissue-thin monotone of blue-grey budstwo blue-grey birds, chasing a third,at full cry! Now they areflung outward and up—disappearing suddenly!
SPRING STRAINSIn a tissue-thin monotone of blue-grey budscrowded erect with desire againstthe sky—tense blue-grey twigsslenderly anchoring them down, drawingthem in—two blue-grey birds chasinga third struggle in circles, angles,swift convergings to a point that burstsinstantly!
Vibrant bowing limbspull downward, sucking in the skythat bulges from behind, plastering itselfagainst them in packed rifts, rock blueand dirty orange!But—
(Hold hard, rigid jointed trees!)the blinding and red-edged sun-blur—creeping energy, concentratedcounterforce—welds sky, buds, trees,rivets them in one puckering hold!Sticks through! Pulls the wholecounter-pulling mass upward, to the right,locks even the opaque, not yet definedground in a terrific drag that isloosening the very tap-roots!
On a tissue-thin monotone of blue-grey budstwo blue-grey birds, chasing a third,at full cry! Now they areflung outward and up—disappearing suddenly!
TREESCrooked, black treeon your little grey-black hillock,ridiculously raised one step towardthe infinite summits of the night:even you the few grey starsdraw upward into a vague melodyof harsh threads.Bent as you are from strainingagainst the bitter horizontals ofa north wind,—there below youhow easily the long yellow notesof poplars flow upward in a descendingscale, each note secure in its ownposture—singularly woven.All voices are blent willinglyagainst the heaving contra-bassof the dark but you alonewarp yourself passionately to one sidein your eagerness.
TREESCrooked, black treeon your little grey-black hillock,ridiculously raised one step towardthe infinite summits of the night:even you the few grey starsdraw upward into a vague melodyof harsh threads.Bent as you are from strainingagainst the bitter horizontals ofa north wind,—there below youhow easily the long yellow notesof poplars flow upward in a descendingscale, each note secure in its ownposture—singularly woven.All voices are blent willinglyagainst the heaving contra-bassof the dark but you alonewarp yourself passionately to one sidein your eagerness.
TREESCrooked, black treeon your little grey-black hillock,ridiculously raised one step towardthe infinite summits of the night:even you the few grey starsdraw upward into a vague melodyof harsh threads.
Bent as you are from strainingagainst the bitter horizontals ofa north wind,—there below youhow easily the long yellow notesof poplars flow upward in a descendingscale, each note secure in its ownposture—singularly woven.
All voices are blent willinglyagainst the heaving contra-bassof the dark but you alonewarp yourself passionately to one sidein your eagerness.
A PORTRAIT IN GREYSWill it never be possibleto separate you from your greyness?Must you be always sinking backwardinto your grey-brown landscapes—and treesalways in the distance, always againsta grey sky?Must I be alwaysmoving counter to you? Is there no placewhere we can be at peace togetherand the motion of our drawing apartbe altogether taken up?I see myselfstanding upon your shoulders touchinga grey, broken sky—but you, weighted down with me,yet gripping my ankles,—movelaboriously on,where it is level and undisturbed by colors.
A PORTRAIT IN GREYSWill it never be possibleto separate you from your greyness?Must you be always sinking backwardinto your grey-brown landscapes—and treesalways in the distance, always againsta grey sky?Must I be alwaysmoving counter to you? Is there no placewhere we can be at peace togetherand the motion of our drawing apartbe altogether taken up?I see myselfstanding upon your shoulders touchinga grey, broken sky—but you, weighted down with me,yet gripping my ankles,—movelaboriously on,where it is level and undisturbed by colors.
A PORTRAIT IN GREYSWill it never be possibleto separate you from your greyness?Must you be always sinking backwardinto your grey-brown landscapes—and treesalways in the distance, always againsta grey sky?Must I be alwaysmoving counter to you? Is there no placewhere we can be at peace togetherand the motion of our drawing apartbe altogether taken up?I see myselfstanding upon your shoulders touchinga grey, broken sky—but you, weighted down with me,yet gripping my ankles,—movelaboriously on,where it is level and undisturbed by colors.
INVITATIONYou who had the senseto choose me such a mother,you who had the indifferenceto create me,you who went to some painsto leave hands off mein the formative stages,—(I thank you most for thatperhaps)but you whowith an iron head, first,fiercest and with strongest lovebrutalized me into strength,old dew-lap,—I have reached the stagewhere I am teaching myselfto laugh.Come on,take a walk with me.
INVITATIONYou who had the senseto choose me such a mother,you who had the indifferenceto create me,you who went to some painsto leave hands off mein the formative stages,—(I thank you most for thatperhaps)but you whowith an iron head, first,fiercest and with strongest lovebrutalized me into strength,old dew-lap,—I have reached the stagewhere I am teaching myselfto laugh.Come on,take a walk with me.
INVITATIONYou who had the senseto choose me such a mother,you who had the indifferenceto create me,you who went to some painsto leave hands off mein the formative stages,—(I thank you most for thatperhaps)but you whowith an iron head, first,fiercest and with strongest lovebrutalized me into strength,old dew-lap,—I have reached the stagewhere I am teaching myselfto laugh.Come on,take a walk with me.